


The Bird in the Cage

by sleipnirismybaby



Category: Naruto
Genre: Abusive family dynamics, Angst, Body Dysphoria, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Gen, Hyuuga Clan-centric, Hyuuga!oc, Murder, OC, On Haitus, Original Character(s), Reincarnation, SI, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, Trauma, especially as a hyuuga branch member, i'm sorry being murdered and reincarnated into naruto verse is not a fun time, mc does not know anything about naruto, slightly crazy main character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleipnirismybaby/pseuds/sleipnirismybaby
Summary: When she wakes up, nothing is what it should be. Not the world, not her mind, and not even her body.She curls up in her bed, staring at the light seeping through the rice paper doors. This clan, this training, she'll use it for her own purposes, and leave as soon as she can.Power. She needs power.Enough that no one will be able to stop her, or hurt her. Enough to change herself.(a woman is reborn as a Hyuuga Branch member, and struggles to change her fate)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	1. When, when will it come out?

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a story I’ve been wanting to write for a while, so I finally got it together! The title is taken from this iconic Japanese poem, and I think it fits well with the story I’m trying to tell.
> 
> Kagome, kagome,  
> The bird in the cage  
> When, when will it come out?  
> In the dark-time before daybreak,  
> A crane and a tortoise slipped and fell.  
> Who is behind your back now?

The brain of a child is elastic and moldable, but undeveloped. Miranda doesn’t wake up in her mother’s stomach or open her eyes and see her parents, aware of her birth.

Children are born with a sparse web of neurons that grows by interacting with the world. An adult’s conscience can’t survive intact without a brain that can support it.

So she loses entire parts of her life.

And what is a person if not their memories? Their unconscious habits and reactions? Is she still Miranda if Miranda doesn’t remember her parent’s faces? If her old life is a land of ghosts? 

What god decided that those she loves meant less than knowing how to cook?

Is she Miranda if almost nothing of Miranda remains? Her tiny body is strange, the well worn pathways of an adult mind unfitting, and limited. To live, to survive in this world that eats the strong and the weak.

In her old life, she had parents that loved and pampered her. In this life, she is born years too soon, useless for her parent’s ambitions. So she is given to a wet-nurse that does her duty and nothing more, while they returned to the battlefield. Children need affection, love, _attention_ , to grow, to learn. If she’d been another child, her first year would have broken something in her.

It’s a blessing to miss that first year, when she is confined to sleeping, eating and shitting herself. 

Over months, she wakes up, her mind fascinated and terrified and half mad as she watches a tiny hand, her hand, clench and unclench. As she stacks soft blocks on top of each other only to knock them down, and do it again and again and again. There’s sounds and sights and smells, both familiar and strange to her.

She’s not awake, but almost dreaming, touching and retreating from the knowledge that something isn’t right. Sketching her mind slowly and meticulously into a baby’s brain. 

These periods of awareness flash and fade away, only leaving the shuddering creep of deja vu and moments of shaking and crying. She knows that something is wrong, terribly wrong, but doesn’t know why. Her wet-nurse leaves her in her crib, ignoring the crying after checking that she’s not wet, or hungry. 

There’s maggots beneath her skin, squirming and crawling, and she scratches and scratches at her skin until blood comes up and big hands tear her fingers away. 

The maggots beneath her skin never go away.

On a random day in the summer, a year and a few months after her second birth, she steps into the garden. The wet-nurse is her watcher today, keeping her eye on her charge outside, and her eight fingers on the mending inside. There’s always laundry and mending to do in a world with no washing machines.

Miranda’s tiny feet are bare and the grass is dry beneath her wiggling toes. She looks at the shoji doors, wondering for a moment what the wet-nurse is doing. 

There’s a concern inside her, an uncomfortable whisper that it isn’t right that she’s all alone outside. That she’s too young, even if her watcher can see through walls. But now that she can walk, she is almost always alone. 

Alone with the ache of wrongness, the certainty that everything around her is a lie. 

She ponders this feeling, squatting down next to the flower beds and running her chubby fingers over a flower. It’s delicate and white, but is it whiter than her eyes? She wants to see, wants to hold the flower against the empty color of her eyes. But the flower has a pupil, pretty yellow and powdery with pollen. There’s no powder in her eyes. 

The wet-nurse’s eyes are pure white, like hers, and they can see everything. So she doesn’t pull the flower from the dirt, even though it’s so pretty. She wants to tear each petal off one by one until there’s only the yellow pupil. 

If she puts the stems in her eyes would she have pupils again?

With two eyes she only needs two flowers, and there’s lots and lots of white flowers in the garden, more than she can count and she can count to five already. 

She glances back at the house. The shoji screens are closed, and even listening with all her might she can’t hear the wet-nurse at all. Did she go shopping? 

Maybe, she thinks, if she tries she could see the wet-nurse the way the wet-nurse sees her. 

She sits, pushing her stubby legs out, and touching her toes before laying down on the itchy grass. She’s more flexible than a child her age should be, and more coordinated. Once she could walk, the watchers started the lessons. So everyday, morning and night, she stretches and runs and throws and bends her fingers into strange shapes. 

The watchers make them into little games, like the hand seals game or knife tossing. The hand seals game is the best, like rock paper scissors, each sign defeats or wins against another.

A little screaming part in her head says all the lessons are strange and wrong, especially the throwing ones with her rubber knives.

Closing her eyes, she breathes in slowly like she practices everyday. She doesn’t think about the things the watchers say to think about, like duty and the clan. 

Instead, she reaches deep down, counting kunai with each breath to reach for the maggots wiggling inside her belly. Her eyes are silvery white like the watchers, so like them that must mean she can _see_ the way they can see. 

The maggots come slowly, pulling and dragging underneath her skin, squirming up her throat, and she gags and gasps but doesn’t falter. The bubbling reaches her eyes and forehead, and suddenly she can see everything. 

The veins of the flowers, the insides of the house, and the houses she shouldn’t be able to see. The vast breadth of the compound washes over her in a flash of information she can’t grasp. 

It’s too much and the white squirming maggots are spilling from her eyes, her closed eyes, why can she see? There’s no color, only the world spread out like a spider's web glimmering all around her. She can’t even scream against the spilling beneath her skin, deep in the depths of her body. 

Like a puppet with its strings cut, she tumbles into darkness.

* * *

“Hakuren-kun, get up, child.” 

There’s a hand touching her cheek, patting to wake her. Her head and eyes ache like a thousand blacksmiths are hammering behind her forehead. She opens one throbbing eye to squint at the sky, and barely registers the person kneeling next to her. 

The person spoke in Japanese, which Miranda supposes makes sense. From her vague glimpses of this life, Japanese fit, despite the magic and the blend of old and modern technology. Her past life is a faded dream, but it seems her grasp of languages is intact. She hadn’t lost any of them, but Japanese comes slowly after not using it for several years. 

She has to get up.

She raises her head, glancing around the garden. It’s darker than it was when she laid down, the sun dipping below the tree line. There’s a stifling ache in her head and throughout her body. The squirming flow of her power seems more obvious beneath her skin after she’s dragged it to the surface. 

Everything feels sharper now. The shock of awakening her eyes for the first time seems to have jolted something in her brain. The world she’s been experiencing like the coming and going of the tides surrounds her now. Real as any memory she’s retained. 

She feels more like herself, but also less than she has since she died.

The person who woke her clicks their tongue and hefts her up from the ground, settling her on one hip. Miranda grunts in surprise, clenching her hands at the adult’s shoulder, and looks up at the side of their face.

It’s the wet-nurse, who despite being young, walks with a dragging limp. One side of her face is melted by burn marks, the skin running together into warped sagging lines. The eye on that side is a stitched down socket that the woman leaves uncovered. It’s a grisly injury, but Miranda can’t muster much of anything as she looks at it.

She remembers that of all the minders, this one has been around the most and the longest. Tasked with feeding her and keeping her alive in her first years of life while her parents can’t be bothered.

“Name?” she asks in slow Japanese, tugging on the yukata collar beneath her chubby fingers. The burn mark is so interesting, like a candle of melted wax. Would it feel like wax beneath her fingers?

The woman looks at her with one unmelted eye, and smiles. It twists her face, looking more like a snarl than a smile. The ruined corner of her mouth doesn’t move right. 

“I’m called Hanako. Are you tired of acting, Ren-kun?”

Ren, Hakuren. She considers the name, ignoring the watcher’s… Hanako’s question. The name isn’t the same as her old one, but Miranda feels like a different person.

Miranda, Hakuren. 

Names are so fluid. 

She remembers going by different names than Miranda in her old life, names she used only for work. At some point those names were as real as her birth name. Hakuren, she decides, is as good a name as any. Even if it was given by these second parents she’s never seen.

Hanako opens the shoji doors to the inside of the house, and sets Hakuren down onto the floor. The house smells like food, and this body hasn’t eaten since lunchtime. Her stomach rumbles.

“Dinner, bath, bed, Ren-kun,” Hanako says. 

The woman’s voice is raspy and distorted. It makes her hard to understand. Another injury to her face? Or further damage from the burns on her face?

Hanako walks without a sound down the hallway and into the kitchen, despite her limp. Hakuren can only follow, her own feet thumping against the floor. 

The woman moves like she has combat training, and she has injuries a civilian woman in a peaceful country would be unlikely to get. A world used to war, and not misogynistic enough to disregard women as only worthwhile for the home front. But her watcher’s are all female, so maybe Hanako was an exception not the norm. 

Still, Hakuren herself is being trained, and from such a young age. Is this place a military state that conscripts warriors from a young age or is it her family? With feudal Japanese influences? But also electricity. 

It’s very strange, and the magical eyes...this isn’t her old world.

The kitchen is small but neat, a traditional low table in the corner like an afterthought. Hanako is seated in a dignified seiza, cutting small pieces of food on a plate meant for Hakuren.

The meal is very Japanese, rice, fish, soup, steamed vegetables. Her uncoordinated fingers struggle to grasp the baby sized spoon, but she stubbornly shoves rice into her mouth. They eat in silence, the only sounds the one’s Hakuren makes as she fumbles her spoon. Hanako is eerie as she eats, every move measured and elegant.

After dinner, Hanako lifts her up and brings her to the bathroom. Hanako turns on the hot water so the bath will fill up while they wash up. The woman helps her brush her teeth and then it’s bath time.

Hanako ties up the sleeves of her yukata, and undoes the obi keeping Hakuren’s own clothes together. The fabric is set in a basket and she’s shuffled into the washing area. Hakuren sits on a small stool in front of the shower head, and Hanako smooths an herbal scented cream into her hair.

"Close your eyes,” Hanako says, and then dumps the wash bin over her head. The water is tepid, and Hakuren shudders while Hanako finishes wiping her down with a washcloth and soap. Another dump of the wash bin, and she’s clean from her day laying outside.

Hakuren finds herself dangling in the air before being plopped into the hot bath. Her skin reddens and her face flushes from the heat. Hanako kneels next to the bath and pours toys into the water.

There are small wooden throwing stars, and knives floating in the bath water, not ducks or ships. It’s so strange, and Hakuren shivers even in the hot bath. She picks up a throwing star and looks at the circular target set up at the end of the bath. The bulls-eye is larger than it should be, easier to hit for a child’s purposes, to practice and build confidence.

Hanako holds her hand, adjusts her grip on the weapon, and murmurs, “A flick of the wrist, and let your fingers slide off. The way you turn your wrist and the position of your fingers determines the strength, distance and spin of each shuriken.”

Shuriken, she repeats in her head, impressing the word down. And the knives are called kunai, she remembers now.

The target isn’t far away, but she’s a baby with chubby arms, unable to properly hold a spoon, let alone a weapon no matter how small. Still, she throws her hand out, flicking her wrist. 

The weapon flies true and strikes the second ring from the middle. Hakuren glances at Hanako, who places another tiny shuriken in her hand. The woman’s face is serene and cool, neither impressed or disappointed.

“Again, Hakuren-kun.”

So, she throws again, adjusting her fingers the way Hanako showed her and flicking, or rather fumbling the shuriken right into the bath water. It plops with a splash, and bobs to the surface.

“Clumsy,” Hanako remarks, taking it again and arranging Hakuren’s fingers around it. The blunted edges and shape feel awkward.

Hakuren doesn’t want to do this.

She doesn’t want to, so she says, “No,” and drops the shuriken in the water.

The retaliation is so quick, Hakuren doesn't know what's happened until there's a sting and a pink welt blossoms on the back of her hand. Her yelp of surprise and pain is stuck in her throat, as Hanako puts the shuriken back into her throbbing hand.

“Again,” the woman says, unperturbed and unyielding, white pupiless eyes reflecting nothing. Hakuren looks at that face, at her own trembling hand, and the throbbing pain behind her eyes grows. The world looks blurry, but she won’t cry. She won’t.

Hakuren clenches her hand around the weapon. The wound is aching and swelling, but not bleeding. It hurts, and god, she wants to claw at Hanako’s face, gouge the shuriken into her skin until the unmarked side is shredded and destroyed.

Instead, she throws the shuriken again. It barely hits on the inside of the target’s center. She’s trembling, her hand hurts, the headache that had faded pounds beneath her eyelids. Her eyes are aching, aching with tears of rage, frustration... _fear_.

She hates being afraid.

“Adequate,” Hanako says, and lifts her from the bath.

There’s no time to flinch, she doesn’t _want_ to flinch. A reaction will give Hanako _power_ over her, and Hakuren has no one to trust here. She’s all alone. But she’s been alone for worse jobs, crawling through the underbelly of the world for a story. She won’t give this woman, this world the satisfaction of breaking her.

She’s wiped down, and left in front of the bathroom mirror while Hanako turns to get her nightclothes. She stands still, forcing her tired, hurt body to not shake. This is the first time she’s seen herself since she woke up aware in this new body.

So she looks, starting with the full head of silky black hair that brushes her jaw and down the back of her neck. Her eyes are silvery white, the outline of her iris and her pupils a darker shade of greyish silver that gave enough depth to not be strange.The difference is hard to notice, blending into the whites of her eyes until from afar she looks alien. 

The shape of her eyes is distinct, turning down at the inner corner and slanting up at the outer with long sooty lashes. She’s got chubby baby cheeks, pouty lips, and a mole under the left side of her lips. 

Very, very cute. If only her eyes weren’t so disconcerting.

Wiggling her toes, she looks down at her whole body and pauses.

There’s a thing between her legs that shouldn’t be there, she thinks. It’s tiny, but hanging between her thighs. 

Oh god.

Fuck.

This body has a penis.

She closes her eyes, opens them. Looks again. It’s still there. 

Hanako kneels behind her and holds open pajama bottoms for her to step into. She steps. 

Hanako holds open the wrap top. She slips her arms into the sleeves. 

Hanako ties it shut and picks her up. She holds onto the woman’s neck and can’t think beyond the dull roaring in her head.

They walk through the bare walls of the house like a whisper. All Hakuren can feel is the quiet shock echoing through her whole body. Hanako opens a door and steps inside Hakuren's bedroom. 

The bed is a small futon, alone in the middle of a room almost bare aside from the necessities for a baby. What toys there are have a purpose. Rubber kunai and shuriken, brain teasers, toys focusing on building hand-eye coordination. There’s no soft stuffed animals, or dolls.

Hanako lays her down, tucking the comforter over her body. The woman picks up the book next to the futon and begins to speak but the words blend into the white noise crushing Hakuren.

She can still feel _it_ down there, the knowledge that it’s there pulsing in her brain, fever bright. Her heart is beating fast, like an adrenaline surge, a fight or flight response that serves no purpose. There’s nothing to fight and nowhere to run. 

But even as her heart surges, her brain stumbles, caught by one word repeating again and again.

Penis.

She closes her eyes, focusing on the pulsing colors beneath her eyelids. In her old life it was a word whispered through giggles in school. It was a joke, or risque talk. Friends would dare each other to say it louder and louder and louder in a public space, and the first one to stop lost.

She’d win now. She doesn’t think she’ll ever stop screaming.

Hanako finishes and leaves, flicking the lights and closing the shoji doors.

In the dark, nestled beneath the blankets, Hakuren slips one hand down, hesitating over the front of her pajama pants.

But she can't ignore this...this part attached to this body. She presses down, touching the appendage through the cotton of her clothes. It lays there, unchanging and Hakuren wants to crawl out of her skin. Goosebumps raise all over her arms. She takes her hand away, tucking it to her chest.

It's there, and it'll be there for a long time. Years, maybe forever. Hakuren doesn't know what medicine is like in this place. A traditional feudal home, but electricity. Magical eyes and ninja, but military dictatorship. 

How does medicine advance in such a place? Is there magic that can change her or surgery?

There must be, there must.

But it will take time, years of growing in this body that doesn't fit, in a world that might be less progressive than the one she left behind.

Knowledge is her goal. Knowledge of this world, the society, the culture. Of medicine and magic. Of these eyes that woke her up from a drifting existence.

She curls up in her bed, alone, staring at the light seeping through the rice paper doors. This clan, this training, she'll use it for her own purposes, and leave as soon as she can.

Power. She needs power. 

Enough that no one will be able to stop her, or hurt her. Enough to change herself. 

The light from the rest of the house blinks off, Hanako leaving for her own home. Hakuren’s alone now. A baby alone in a dark house, who was slapped on the hand for not throwing a weapon when ordered. 

“Hahah…agh,” she laughs, choking against her tears. But she can’t escape it, they slide down her cheeks, hot and salty against skin. Just this once, this one last time she can cry, she can let the blurry past of her old life slip further from her grasp. She can mourn for a family she can’t remember, a life of blurry places and people.

God, she’s all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If anyone here reads translated chinese novels then Hakuren has phoenix eyes! Glad this first chapter is out *wipes sweat* I maybe edited this about 4 times.


	2. In the Dark Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ayye 2nd chapter! I’m moving countries right now, so I’m a bit busy. Also writing a different fic entirely, hahaha I’m dumb… Special thanks to the reviewer HappyDog23006007341647. I read your review so many times! Thanks for the encouragement!

As a child, it's easy to ignore that your body isn't right when there's no social pressure about gender norms. She can go for hours without thinking about the thing before she has to go to the bathroom.

That's not to say gender norms don't exist in this place, but that Hakuren doesn't get out much, and no one bothers to talk with her. 

Talking at her? Yes, but with her? Hakuren thinks she's going crazy half from touch starvation, let alone reincarnation. She can't help but shiver and ache whenever Hanako touches her, desperate to feel the warmth of another person.

She hates it, hates how even a brush makes her skin tremble, her pulse quicken in eagerness. Even as she recoils from the woman’s touch, she wants it.

Humans aren't made for isolation, and Hakuren is so alone.

There's distractions, training disguised as games, reading and etiquette lessons. But the strain of her goal being decades out of reach, and the helplessness of being dependent on others weighs on her. 

Hakuren doesn’t even know where her parents are, except that they aren’t with her.

Thankfully, her clan is willing to devote hours each day towards building her physical and magical strength. She’ll take everything they’re willing to give her, until she has the strength to tear herself free.

The first lesson starts two days after her second birthday, which is only observed by Hanako when she says, “You will join the other branch children in the Dojo at eight am in two days.”

Hakuren nods, demure and seated in seiza at the table. Her legs have long since gone numb but Hanako has expectations for her behavior now, and it’s not worth the punishment to oppose her. 

The woman’s hand snakes out and strikes Hakuren’s palm, raising a welt over another one that has barely faded. Hakuren clenches her hand, pushing the stinging pain behind the clench of her teeth. She closes her eyes against the reflective tears.

One day Hakuren will take the woman’s last remaining eye, and the hands that strike her. She’ll cut them from the woman’s screaming body, and watch as she bleeds out.

“Yes, Hanako-san,” she says, neither fast nor slow, working to sound respectful. She peeks from beneath her lashes and sighs in relief at the hint of approval in the woman’s good eye.

Fucking conditioning, she’ll kill them all before they brain wash her.

Her second birthday ends with dreaded bath time, her most hated activity. It’s not even because of her body anymore, though every time she takes off her clothes and has to see the penis she feels like crawling out of her skin. Now it’s because after she realized her body wasn’t right the first time she refused to bathe. Three days later, Hanako spanked her until she fainted, washed her while she was unconscious and the next day Hanako couldn’t walk. 

She never says no to Hanako anymore.

The morning of her first day at clan training, Hanako lays out a new set of clothes. Black hakama, a plain white kimono and tiny sandals. It’s more boyish than Hakuren would prefer, but more practical for martial arts than her normal yukatas and kimonos. She puts them on and let’s Hanako brush her shoulder length hair into a ponytail.

“I will walk with you this morning, but I expect you to remember the way for tomorrow,” Hanako says, “Now come.” 

They leave the house and walk down the winding stone path past the budding trees. It’s the first day of April, which is when the Shinobi Academy usually starts, but this year it fell on the weekend. So all the children are shuffled to the Dojo as usual.

It’s the first time Hakuren has left the small house she calls home, and her heart races a bit. Hanako never let her outside into the front yard, so she’s only seen the back garden and the vast forest behind her own home. 

She looks around as discreetly as she can, absorbing what she can see. The road outside is laid with pretty blue stones in a v shaped pattern. The stone path winds through other houses and gardens, filled with other Hyuuga members moving about their day. It’s pretty but the houses all look the same, the people look like Hanako and her. Even the clothes are the same style.

How boring.

Hanako leads her down the street, inclining her head to several older Hyuuga and ignoring others. The adults have their foreheads covered with cloth, like Hanako.

The dojo is tucked away in the corner, a vast forest of trees the size of giant redwoods looming behind it. The sunset always comes earlier because the trees surrounding her home are so huge they block out the sun. The building is in a traditional style surrounded by training yards of packed dirt, with weapon targets and an obstacle course. 

Hanako ushers her inside where a young girl is waiting at the entrance. The child is seven or eight, with dark brown hair that has a slight wave and her eyes are the byakugan white. She’s shifting on her feet, glancing back at the inner doors with concern.

“Come on,” the girl says, grabbing Hakuren’s hand and dragging her into the main room. Hakuren glances back, but Hanako is already gone.

Nowhere to go but forward, she thinks. 

There’s rows of kids between the ages of two and nine. Or around there, Hakuren’s not good with children’s ages, comes from being an only child in both lives. They’re all sitting in seiza, staring straight ahead at a cushioned chair at the front of the class. She kneels at the end of the back line, curling her hands into fists and glancing around beneath her lashes. The girl who led her inside takes her own place two rows up next to children the same age.

From her glance, she’s one of four other children between the ages of two and three. The rest are older kids, their foreheads are bare. Hakuren furrows her brow, and looks down at the tatami mats. Are the forehead bindings only for adults? What does it mean?

The room is silent, only a few of the younger kids shifting in seiza, but no one dares to whisper. There’s an acrid stink of fear that grows heavier when the door slides open at the front of the class. An older woman walks inside, tall and stately with hair as white as her eyes. Her forehead is covered by metal engraved with a stylized swirl. From Hanako’s lessons, Hakuren remembers it’s the sign of a shinobi. 

Licensed to kill, she thinks wryly.

The elderly woman has a commanding presence, straight backed and stern. A woman to watch. Those cool eyes sweep over them, and finally settle on Hakuren.

“There is a new student. Hyuuga Hakuren stand,” she orders. Hakuren stands, bearing everyone’s eyes without flinching. She bows and waits. The silence stretches and Hakuren begins to tremble against the strain of holding her pose. “Sit,” the old woman says, Hakuren folds down into seiza. “I am Hyuuga Kohatsu. Address me as Kohatsu-sensei. Your partner will be Aimi. Now,” she clasps her hands, “begin.

Hakuren tries to find this Aimi child in a sea of children fleeing outside. Only older kids and the very young children are staying inside with Kohatsu-sensei. The girl finds her first, pushing through the crowd to her.

“Hakuren-kun, come with me,” Aimi says, catching her hand and leading her to the front. There Kohatsu-sensei’s eagle eyes watch the older children teach the younger children the basics. Aimi is the girl who led her inside the dojo, and must be Hakuren’s assigned babysitter during practice. Hakuren feels bad for her, what a sucky job.

Aimi turns to her and crouches down to look her in the eyes. “We’ll stretch then I’ll show you the first kata of the gentle fist. Have you learned about the clan’s taijutsu?”

Hakuren shakes her head no, Hanako hasn’t bothered saying anything about taijutsu or their family’s eyes. Chakra is a bitch, slipping and sliding around in her coils and decidedly uninterested in being controlled by Hakuren. It’s aggravating, but since the first time she activated her byakugan she’s only managed it twice more for a split second. 

Both attempts resulted in over stimulation and dizziness. Yay, progress.

Aimi sighs, rolling her eyes and Hakuren startles. It’s the most childish thing she’s seen since she’s woken up. It reminds her that these people are  _ real _ , that this is an actual child, her face chubby with baby fat, ready to teach her lethal martial arts. 

She should care, she should be disturbed and indignant. But all she feels is tired. Humanity is the same in every life, and every world. 

“Well our byakugan can see chakra pathways, so we use the gentle fist style to turn off the chakra gates. Okay?” she pauses, and Hakuren nods. “Right now your chakra pool and pathways are too small to use the byakugan, but everyone learns the forms early. I’ll show you the first one, then you practice on your own okay? I’ll check on you.”

That sounds…like a disaster. She’s only two, what two year old has the discipline to remember and practice martial arts on their own? This is going to suck balls. Not her own, but someone’s balls. She’d rather have no balls at all.

Aiko drops into her stretches, a similar set to what Hanako taught Hakuren, so she follows along. It’s muscle memory at this point, so she glances around at the other students. Older students with younger students, and it’s not that the elder teaches so much as they check in and correct as needed. 

Only a self-motivated student would excel in such an environment. She can already see how some students go through the motions, their focus on other things. She slips into pigeon pose, folding down over her knee, and grimaces into the floor.

If there’s one thing she does have, it’s motivation.

“Okay, good,” Aimi says, finishing up her own stretches. “Now, I’ll show you, fix your form, and let you practice, okay? Okay. We’ll do it again before lunch.”

Aimi slides into a low stance, fingers and palms flat and in a ready position. 

“Like this,” she motions Hakuren close, “hold your hands firm but flexible, in front here, legs wide.” She straightens. “Now you try.”

In the before, she’d done some martial arts training for self defense, but this body has no muscle memory. Her stance is clumsy, in a few minutes her legs will start to tremble and shake. Useless, fuck she’s useless.

Aimi fixes her palm position and then nods. “Good enough. Now watch what I do, this’s the first spiral motion.”

The girl drops back into the first stance and begins to move in a circular motion around Hakuren, her feet moving across the floor with a soft shuffle. Her circle spirals close enough for Hakuren to touch before Aimi reverses the flow and starts spiraling out again. 

The movements are smooth and beautiful, almost like a dance. Nothing like the down and dirty instructions from before where the first goal was to distract and run, and the second to take down and run. She settles into the stance and carefully copies the smooth stepping motion of Aimi’s feet. It feels awkward, like she’s going to trip over herself and land splat on the floor.

She’ll have to practice. Until her feet hurt and she feels like she can’t go on. Everyday until she can leave this place. She grimaces and sets her feet with grim determination. 

The morning passes with Aimi checking in on her, and the footwork getting easier even as Hakuren’s body gives out. Endurance training, she thinks, running and running and more running. Punching and punching and more punching. 

God, her arms feel like tenderized meat, she never wants to lift them again.

Kohatsu-sensei says nothing the rest of the practice, her hawk eyes observing but uninterested in actual instruction. There will be no help from that quarter, so she can only go through the paces and pray Aimi didn’t teach her any bad habits.

She would be so lucky.

A bell rings, and everyone in the room comes to a standstill, turning to face Kohatsu-sensei at attention. Other students rush in from outside, lining up sweaty and dirty from the training fields.

Kohatsu-sensei looks them over and nods once. “Pre-academy students, go home. Everyone else, lunch and back to work. Term begins in two days.” She looks over the older students, mouth curving down. “Do not,” she says sternly, “disappoint the clan.”

There’s some shuffling and a quiet murmur, but it dies a quick death when Kohatsu-sensei stares the perpetrators down. The room becomes deathly quiet as the old woman surveys them before nodding and waving her hand to dismiss everyone. 

Aimi grabs her hand and pulls her towards the front door, where parents and guardians are waiting for the younger kids. Hanako isn’t among them. Aimi lets go of her hand and waits against a wall while with her while the other kids are whisked out the door. Finally it’s only them, waiting for Hanako to come for her.

Hakuren glances up at Aimi. “Half day?” she says, the slight upward lilt of her voice asking a question.

“You’re not in the academy, so you only practice a little and at home you learn other stuff. After the academy ends during the week, and the morning on weekends.” Aimi puts her hands on her hips and looks at Hakuren. “Do you get it?”

“Yes, Aimi-senpai,” Hakuren says, “When do I go to the Academy?” Hakuren avoids asking questions of Hanako. Actually, she avoids Hanako except for dinner and training, so she doesn’t know when she’ll start at the murderous shinobi school.

Aimi sighs, looking put upon. “Six years old.” She’s glancing towards the front door, obviously eager to run off and practice with her friends, but duty keeps her waiting for Hakuren to be taken home. Hakuren’s pretty sure that Hanako expects her to make it back herself, but it is her first day….maybe Hanako will come.

“How long?” Hakuren asks, shuffling a little closer and widening her eyes. Being cute is a tactic, and she’ll use what she’s got.

“Four years, unless you’re smart and skip classes.” Aimi shrugs. “And I heard the entrance age is going to drop next year,” Aimi whispers, glancing around like someone is going to hear her.

“Drop?”

“Yeah, to five or four years old. They need more shinobi on the front line. All the orphans are drafted now, you know? Even if they don’t got enough chakra. Not that civilian borns are any help,” she mutters, “useless.”

Well, to children raised teething on rubber kunai, Hakuren supposes civilian children who have no training before the Academy would be useless. Kunai fodder to bolster the ranks. Sucks to be them, but Hakuren’s different. She has to be.

“Thank you, Aimi-senpai.” Hakuren smiles up at her.

Aimi smiles back, a little charmed by this serious, but sweet toddler. Usually the babies are the worst, and all the older kids pray Kohatsu-sensei will forget about them, so they won’t have to teach one. Hakuren is pretty cute though.

The front door of the Dojo slides open with a clack, and Hanako stands in the entryway. “Hakuren-kun, come,” Hanako rasps. Aimi jolts up and stands at attention, her eyes on the floor.

Hakuren wants to sigh, but knows she’ll be punished if she does. She almost would have preferred going home by herself. Instead, she puts on her sandals and walks over to Hanako’s side. She has at least two years to gain more information, but today she got some good gossip and new katas so she’ll take it.

They walk back to the house, and Hanako orders Hakuren to the study room to practice her writing. As she settles down in seiza, holding the child sized brush in her unsteady hands, she misses pens.

One does what one must, she reminds herself. And one must be literate.

* * *

Aimi’s prediction is right, the next year the Hokage drops the entrance age of the Academy to four years old. Hakuren is barely three, but next year she’ll be four in time for the Academy to start.

If the war keeps going, which Hakuren expects it will, she’ll be entering the academy in one more year. Now that Hanako let’s her move about the compound on her own, to the Dojo and on errands, she sees the worn and tired faces of the Hyuuga non-combatants. The only shinobi in the compound walls are permanently disabled or on the village protection shift. The non-combatant clan members are worn and stressed, and drafted for war time efforts that drain clan resources.

War wears down everything, but especially food and people. 

Hyuuga children, whether main or branch clan, don’t stay in the academy for all four years. Most graduate in three, which means there are no children between the ages of nine and fifteen running around the compound’s streets. Unless of course, they’ve returned mutilated.

In war time there are no non-combatant options for clan children. 

Hyuuga aren’t paper or intelligence shinobi. Their eyes and taijutsu puts them on the front line, fighting and dying for Konoha. Many Hyuuga will never come back, the branch clan knows that best of all.

Her training continues on. Everyday she practices her forms at the dojo, learning the steps and strikes of the gentle fist. Circling and striking, circling and mock killing. The rest of the day she practices the leaf sticking exercise she’d tricked out of Aimi, and practices her byakugan.

She would like to say that she  was brilliant at taijutsu and her byakugan , but the reality was more mundane and frustrating. A child’s body is still a child, and chakra..well that’s a whole new skill with no instruction manual. The leaf sticking exercise helps, but it’s so difficult she wants to cry and throw a tantrum.

The squirming roil of her power is more akin to the spiritual balance of yin and yang, and not the magic spells which she recalls from her past life. This makes it hair wrenchingly difficult to train without guidance. 

Guidance Kohatsu-sensei won’t give to a child still at the first positions of the gentle fist style.

Nothing in the Hyuuga clan is given away for free, or without effort. Aimi expects her to practice on her own and master the forms before moving on to the next. There’s no structured one on one training only showing, checking and correcting. Aimi herself is an academy student a year away from graduation, and she has her own training and worries.

The girl is nine years old, and graduates this year. Hakuren isn’t sure she’ll ever see her again. Aimi is only a branch member, and not an exceptionally talented one at that. There will be no special accommodations for her, not like main branch children.

Students who become genin don’t come back to the clan. Not in this war.

As a branch member Hakuren’s has no help, what she makes of herself will come from her own practice and effort.

She trains relentlessly, taijutsu practice at the dojo for half a day, chakra training whenever she can fit it in (usually walking to and from practice or while practicing her writing) and it never seems  _ enough _ . She can hold her byakugan for thirty seconds before losing control of her chakra, but maintaining it is so difficult she can’t focus on anything else, let alone using it with her taijutsu. 

Hanako teaches her kunai and shuriken in the back yard, and fixes her taijutsu stances. But the woman is gone most of the day now, and only comes to the house to fix meals and instruct her on the arts all Hyuuga need to know. But how will knowing about tea ceremony etiquette and flower arranging help her when she dies on the front lines before she can escape this hell pit?

And she has to be so careful, careful in the dojo, careful around Hanako, careful even alone at home, because she can never know who’s watching her. She can’t be too smart, or too good because dangerous people will pay attention to her, but she can’t be too dumb or she’ll sabotage herself, and Hanako will discipline her. 

Taijutsu and weapons practice she lets herself excel at, it’s only expected from a Hyuuga, even a branch member. But everything else, her byakugan, chakra practice, her letters and math, she makes sure to be average. Good but not too good.

The only blip in that year happens at the tail end of September when the adults whisper that the war is all but won. That given a few months and a few more pitch battles they’ll send all the bastards running. Everyone buckles down, a fever pitch of desperation and hope settling over the whole village that even affects the Hyuuga in their isolated compound grounds. The war is won, they say, even as they ship more armaments and food to the front lines.

There’s no news of the Academy entrance age changing, so Hakuren sets aside the rumors and practices.

She struggles, day after day, and the winter comes and goes with nothing changing but a few more layers of clothing. Konoha doesn’t snow, not like her old home. Instead it’s months of sleeting rain, lightning and overcast skies that turn the practice rinks to mud fields. Her fourth birthday sneaks up on her as February bleeds into March and the flowers begin to flourish to life.

The Academy starts April 1st, and Hakuren’s birthday is March 30th. 

She misses the cut off by two days.

And then it’s her birthday, and Hanako is waiting for her in the kitchen, a simple breakfast laid out on the table. Very unusual, Hanako doesn’t eat with her now that she’s old enough not to choke and die, and the woman has no use for the frivolity of a birthday. They eat and clean up in silence and Hanako stops her before she can race off to practice.

“Tomorrow, we select your school materials in the village.” Hanako scrubs the dishes, her only eye turned away from Hakuren. “Today inform Kohatsu-sama that you will be absent.

The village? Hakuren shuffles in place, heart beating faster and a smile curving the edge of her mouth. She’d never been allowed into the village, this is a great opportunity for some information gathering. 

“What supplies, Hanako-san?”

“Scrolls, brushes.” Hakuren pulls a face behind Hanako’s back, she hates brushes, and kanji can fuck itself. “And your shinobi outfit. Two sets for this year, and we will replace them as you grow.” Hanako turns from the dishes to look at her with her good eye. “Go now, you’ll be late.”

“Yes, Hanako-san. I will go to practice now,” she replies, bowing and retreating outside.

As she walks to practice, there’s a spring in her step. Finally, she can escape from the walls of the compound, and see what world waits for her outside.

Tomorrow, tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next chapter is the Academy, and we figure out when in the timeline Hakuren is! Anyone have any guesses?


	3. Before Daybreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Academy time! Let’s get the ball rolling. I will finally reveal where in the timeline I’ve thrown poor Hakuren.

The morning dawns bright and early, and Hakuren is up and ready to go before Hanako steps in the door. Hanako stands in the doorway, a slight bit of surprise on her face as she sees Hakuren dressed and ready to go at the entryway. 

“Have you eaten?” her guardian asks. Hakuren nods her head, and slips into her shoes. The woman hums, face once again smooth and expressionless. “You reflect the Hyuuga clan, so behave properly in the village,” Hanako orders, as she leads Hakuren out the front door.

“Yes, Hanako-san,” Hakuren says. Her heart is thumping, and her palms are damp with excitement, but she makes sure to look obedient and proper in her new yukata. She’s too little to challenge Hanako, she still  _ needs _ her, for food, and what little advice and training she can get.

As they leave the front yard through the gate, Hanako turns them the opposite direction of the Dojo, down twisting stone paths lined with houses, then eventually shops and stores run by retired shinobi (what few of them there are) or civilian Hyuugas. Everything Hakuren needs is within the compound walls, but Hanako is letting her out.

A stick and a carrot, she thinks. Or some other reason she can’t guess. 

The compound walls are three meters high and thick with a beautifully crafted wooden gate. It’s guarded by a man with one sleeve pinned up, his forehead protector gleaming on his forehead. They sign out at the gate, and Hanako shows their identification cards to the shinobi. When he hands it back, she gives one card to Hakuren. The front has her name, age and status, along with a detailed sketch of her face.

“That will let you in and out of the gate, keep it safe,” she says, “Only enter through the side gate. The main gate is not for the likes of us.” She looks down at Hakuren, mouth stern. “Now come, remember the path.”

Hakuren looks forward at the wall of greenery that separates the clan from the village. There are sakura trees planted along the forest paths, and a thick layer of pink flowers coat the ground. It smells nice, and looks beautiful. Despite the two gates, there’s only one path out of the clan’s cloistered retreat. 

An old woman, bow-backed and feeble, uses a broom to sweep up the petals onto a piece of fabric, even as new petals flutter down in the wind. 

They walk through the path of sakura trees, and in front of Hakuren's eyes, the village blossoms ahead of her feet.

The entire city is one big labyrinth of trees, with four grand giants towering over the humans beneath their branches in each cardinal direction. Outside the village walls are more of the same, unnaturally large trees surrounding and protecting Konoha. The history lessons of Hanako come to her, this must be the work of Senju Hashirama's mokuton.

Within the actual village there are smaller trees of various types and built around and within them are shops and houses, as though the entire village is a treehouse. Within the greenery, entire streets are built on the branches that are strung together by walkways. They're filled with shinobi and civilians alike. A village hidden in the leaves is an appropriate name.

There are also people  _ everywhere _ . And they look different, not like Hyuuga's. In the childlike, almost feral depths of herself, a sense of instinctive fear rises up. The villagers look strange,  _ other _ .

Hanako takes her hand, awkwardly, as she hasn't done since Hakuren still had trouble walking. The touch jolts her, and she realizes the insidious brilliance of Hyuuga conditioning.

A child raised in a homogeneous compound, when faced with outsiders and strangers so different from what they know, will instinctively turn to the familiar, to the clan.

This trip isn't for supplies, easily obtained within the clan walls, but to bind the Hyuuga children tighter to the evil they know, to the Hyuuga.

Hakuren won't be afraid. She tugs her hand from Hanako's loose grip.

"What do I need, Hanako-san?"

She’ll suffer for this when they’re back within the compound walls, but in the open street Hanako only twists her hands and tucks them into her sleeves. 

“Clothes and weapons. Come.” The woman turns and walks into the busy street. The civilians swerve around her, their glances catching on the woman’s melted face and sliding away with a jerk. Hakuren goes after her, and glances up at her guardian. It’s been so many years now, she’s gotten used to Hanako’s face, but the civilians are staring.

It’s just after breakfast, the shops are opening and the rush of shoppers eager to buy up limited goods flood the streets. All of Konoha rises with the sun and goes to sleep when it sets because everything, even electricity, is rationed because of the war. Not even the Hyuuga are exempt.

The shop they enter first is called Tama’s Weaponry, and it’s almost stripped bare of supplies. The man at the counter is dozing on one fist, the other holding open a scroll. The man must be a shinobi, but from first glance Hakuren can’t tell why the man is monitoring a store when he could be fighting and dying on the front lines like every other shinobi. A chakra related injury perhaps?

Hanako ignores the weaponry still on display and goes directly to the counter, standing imposingly in front of the counter. Hakuren hovers at her side, but she’s too small to reach even half-way up the counter. It’s an adult world, children suffer even in such small things.

“Academy kunai and shuriken set.” Hanako sets the money on the table, pulled from her sleeves. The man snorts and knocks his fist against the table sending the careful stack of coins falling.

“Double it.” He yawns into his fist, and gets up to lumber around his counter with a thump and a click. One leg is gone, replaced by a wooden prosthetic. Well, that makes sense, Hakuren supposes.

“Here little lady,” he says, dropping a small pack into her hands, “Academy grade weaponry for tiny hands. Gotta replace ‘em every year cause yer growin’, but it’ll last ya a while.” He settles back behind the counter and taps the pile of coins, holding up one finger.

Hanako drops another set of coins on the countertop, mouth twisted in a truly gut clenching sneer, but the man is already done with them, eyes half closed and focused on his scroll. The money is tucked away, there’s no change. 

Her guardian turns and stalks out of the door, limp barely impeding her angry steps. Hakuren holds her weapon’s pack and follows her, glancing curiously back at the man. He looks up at her and grins with all his teeth bared. Hakuren smiles back.

“Come along,” Hanako snaps, and Hakuren hurries to match her longer steps. 

The next store has nothing but the symbol of fire overlayed by a needle and thread, a rather un-auspicious combo, but also self explaining. When they enter, a young woman appears quickly, neatly dressed.

“Customers, welcome! How may we help you?”

Hakuren is pushed ahead, and she goes quietly, standing between Hanako and the salesperson. 

“Academy clothes, let the boy choose,” Hanako orders. She looks at Hakuren and adds, “One hour, I will retrieve you. The money.” Several strings of coins were dropped into Hakuren’s palm, several more than was needed for the weapons. Without mass manufacturing, clothing must be more expensive here.

Hanako looks at the saleswoman, whose well-practiced smile falters at the sight of Hanako’s face, her eyes catching on her melted part.

“O-of course.”

Hanako turns and leaves, and Hakuren looks at the uncomfortable saleswoman, feeling inexplicably sorry. Hakuren knows better than anyone what a formidable force her guardian presented. 

“Ah, young...sir? What style are you looking for?”

Hakuren tilts her head, unconsciously reminding the woman of a kitten. “I’ll look and decide.”

The clothing store is also rather bare compared to what she expects, but the children’s section is pretty well stocked. There’s no one else in the store besides the woman hovering awkwardly at the front desk.

Most of the clothes look like colored sacks, practical and loose, with no particular shape or style, and no designs or patterns. Hakuren runs her fingers across the clothes, dismissing them off hand. Perhaps a shorter version of her everyday wear, with some pants? 

All these years wearing traditional clothes has given her a taste for them, and it’s also more androgynous than these sad sacks of cloth. She looks at what’s on display but can’t find anything to her liking. 

“Find anything you like, young sir?” The saleswoman ventures back to ask her.

“No, are there any kimonos, shortened with a thin obi and inner wear?”

“Ahh, an older style. We keep such clothes in the back, let me get them for you! For inner wear, look in this section.” The woman shows her a corner with inner wear and leaves for the back room. 

Hakuren browses through her options, finally settling on a thin, flowy black pant that got slimmer around the calf and ankles, and a long sleeve black top. There was also specialized support underwear to keep all the hanging bits tucked away and protected. It’s frustrating that she needs them but she grabs several pairs of those as well as five copies of the inner wear for each day of the week.

Next, she turns to the children’s shoe section and browses long enough to find a pair of sandals with a closed back and open toes. The size fits, maybe a bit too loose, but Hakuren’s growing. It should last her at least this semester if not the year.

“Here we go.” A loud thwump comes as the saleswoman drops a large pile of kimonos and obis down on a sorting table. “We can look for your size, and see if we can find anything.”

They sort through the clothes together, holding up various pieces to compare sizes, colors and patterns. Despite Hakuren’s own desire to go for some prettier designs, she focuses on something less feminine. When she’s older she’ll be able to do what she wants, and no one will stop her. But now it’s time for compromises.

In the end, they fish out several different knee length kimonos with shorter sleeves. As for the obis, she puts aside several of them, and feels satisfied.

The saleswoman is flushed with success, and tutting over how ‘handsome’ and ‘dignified’ she’ll look all dressed up. It’s flattering but grating, a bur beneath her skin every time the woman calls her young sir, or handsome.

“Do you need any hair pieces?” The saleswoman (and Hakuren should really get her name) asks, folding all the clothes up and stacking them at the checkout desk.

Hakuren ties her hair back with stretchy, leather bands that operate like elastic, but with her beautiful new clothes, a nice hair tie does sound nice.

“Yes, what is there?”

The woman points behind Hakuren, and she turns to see a cabinet of drawers, filled with hair trinkets.

“Some have generic knives or wire worked into the design for use, but to get anything better than a low grade tool, you’d need to get it specially commissioned.”

“Thank you.” Hakuren smiles up at her, and drops the string of coins onto the front desk. “How much can I spend with what I have left?”

“Hmm, only a few depending on what you pick. But as a special customer, if you keep shopping with us in the future I can provide a discount today! We have many appropriate battle kimonos of all different sizes for your future.”

“Thank you.” 

She goes over to the cabinet, and starts opening the drawers. They are filled with all sorts of accessories, but none of them fit the style of the kimonos she got. Too ornamental and shiny.

“Young sir, how about these?” A small selection of carefully made hair pieces are in the woman’s hand. A few carved wooden pins, several lengths of ribbon attached to combs carefully decorated. Very pretty.

“I’ll take them.”

By the time Hanako comes back, exactly an hour after they arrived, the clothes are carefully wrapped up on the countertop, and the saleswoman is fitting a set of the newly purchased pins into her hair.

“Finished?” Hanako glances at the package and the much smaller stack of coins.

“Yes, Hanako-san.”

There’s no anger on her face, but that doesn’t mean anything. And Hakuren has spent a lot of money…but Hanako left her with it, so it should be okay? But maybe it was a test.

“Let’s return.” Hanako slips the coins into her sleeve, and grabs the package. Hakuren bows her head and thanks the saleswoman and goes after Hanako. 

The streets are even more crowded than the morning due to the lunch crowd rush, a heavy press of people hemming Hakuren in on all sides. Hanako’s barely visible in front of her when a man crosses in front of Hakuren’s eyes, and she loses sight of Hanako’s back.

The street noises press in around her, and Hanako has vanished. This body is only four years old, too small to see above all the adults, and  _ four years old _ . 

Another Hyuuga trick.

As if any trained shinobi could lose a child by accident. But what  _ purpose _ does this serve?

She moves diagonally through the crowd, slicing through the press of bodies and coming out at a storefront. The menu on the outside catches her attention with the colorful pictures of delicious looking western styled foods. For a moment all she can do is stare. Since she’d ended up in this place, all she’s eaten is traditional japanese food, and here is a feast!

It’s a mixmash of foods, as though the creator of this world couldn’t make up their minds about what they wanted. Hakuren isn’t mad at it, when she has her first shinobi paycheck, she’s going to come here and eat everything on the menu.

Now it’s the waiting game. Will Hanako give in and collect her before Hakuren turns herself in to the nearest authority? Hakuren is betting on herself, because the Hyuuga couldn’t stand the loss of face.

There’s a bench next to the store, fashioned out of the twisted root of a great tree, a perfect place to sit and wait to be collected. She wishes with all her mind to be able to wander the streets collecting the bits and pieces that will help her understand this world better, but she’s too tiny. Even in a world like this, a four year old clan member alone in the village draws eyes. Only Hyuuga shinobi really leave the compound, and everything they need is provided by the Main Family.

Hakuren is almost sure some of the grown adults working in the stores and walking the streets of the compound haven’t set a foot outside the walls into the main village. The clan certainly does it’s best to cultivate a distrust of outsiders from a young age.

Again, if Hakuren was  _ actually _ four years old, she’s sure being “lost” would be quite traumatizing.

All Hakuren wants to do is eat some spaghetti...or a burger. But the money was given back to Hanako, so all she can do is wait.

Minutes pass, and only a few people spare her confused glances. Hanako must be observing her from somewhere, to see what she does. It’s too bad for her guardian that she’s a grown woman, and spent years working against the insidious, sneaking mind games of her targets. This is simple in comparison.

If only she could do some training while she waits, flex the limits of her Byakugan, or spread her chakra out from her body, but there’s no telling who could see. Best to keep her skills close to her chest.

Her stomach rumbles, the noon sun beating down on her from straight above. The canopy of trees only offers some protection. Even though it’s the last day of March, a hot spring has come with a vengeance, and Hakuren’s thick kimono suffocates her. There’s sweat dripping down her brows, damping the fabric of her clothes and making her a sticky disgusting mess.

She hopes Hanako hurries up and retrieves her so she can go to the house, shower and eat. Then of course chakra and calligraphy practice. 

Joy…

**Thump. Thump.** She swings her feet back and forth, gazing more into space than at the people around her. They were boring, civilians rushing about their everyday lives. She doesn’t have a target to trail and photograph, no story to catch. It’s boring just waiting. Not even the strange and unusual village can distract her.

“Hey kid,” a deep voice says next to her.

Her heart leaps in her chest, thudding against her ribs like a drum, and she barely keeps her outward calm. There’s a man standing next to her bench, tall and stooped with his hands wedged in his pockets, and his spiky black hair spilling over his shoulders and across one droopy eye. He looks existentially, emotionally and physically exhausted, with blue under eye bags the size of an ocean. He looks even more tired once he sees her eyes.

“Hello, shinobi-san,” Hakuren replies. 

“What are you doing out here all alone, Hyuuga-kun.”

Hakuren tilts her head and considers the best answer to this. ‘I was left here and now I’m lost’ is true, but Hanako will be annoyed with her. ‘I’m waiting for my guardian’ is also true, and Hanako won’t punish her.

“I’m waiting for my guardian, shinobi-san,” she says. The man doesn’t look like any clan she’s been taught about, but black hair and black eyes could fit either the Nara or the Uchiha, or even a lucky clanless shinobi that made it long enough to be over twenty.

"You've been here a while, can I take you to them? Or back to your compound?"

She shakes her head. "No, my guardian will come soon. I can wait." 

Please leave, she internally prays, but the man definitely isn’t a Yamanaka and continues to stand around and plague her. Hanako’s going to be so annoyed.

The man smiles at her awkwardly, somehow slouching even further and drifting closer to her bench.

"We can wait together then," he offers and pulls a cigarette out as he leans against the tree trunk. With a twist of his fingers a brief spark lights it up and he breathes out a cloud of smoke.

“Cigarettes are bad,” she tells him. It’s half to bother him enough to leave, but mostly that she hates the smell of it.

The shinobi pauses, looking at the burning cigarette and back down at Hakuren’s face. He heaves a drawn out sigh, more like a groan, and puts it out on the back of his arm gauntlet.

“Better?” he asks with an immense sense of tortured exhaustion.

“Yes,” she answers, and turns back to scanning the streets.

The silence between them stretches, interrupted only by the rhythmic thumping of Hakuren’s heels against the wood. She’s surprised Hanako hasn’t come and taken her away yet, but maybe her guardian really did leave Hakuren here to go do something else. 

Parenting in this world is rather lax. Hakuren still hasn’t seen her parents, nor does she know their names or what they look like. Every few months Hanako will be ‘kind’ enough to tell her they’re still alive. Do other shinobi on the front lines send letters home?

The man waits with her in the sweltering sun, somehow not sweating or even looking hot in the layers of his uniform. Hakuren’s bitterly jealous, but guesses it’s some sort of chakra regulation that she’ll have to deconstruct as soon as possible. Being hot and sticky is disgusting.

Hakuren keeps shifting along the bench to stay in the shade cast by the tree, but the humidity in the air penetrates everywhere and makes the air like a sauna room.

God, she’d like to go home now and take an ice cold bath, Hanako please she’s roasting alive here!

“Child.” Hanako’s voice is a blessing, and the first time Hakuren’s ever been glad to see her in the years she’s been here. Her guardian stands stiffly, with a new package added to the one carrying Hakuren’s clothes.

Hakuren gets up, while the shinobi stays slouched against the tree, eyes half lidded and an unlit cigarette being rolled around in his hands.

“See you, shinobi-san!” Hakuren smiles, waving as she goes to Hanako’s side. The man nods, and lights up his cigarette as they walk away. Hakuren loses sight of him in the press of people as they make their way back to the compound.

The pressing silence around Hanako keeps Hakuren as quiet as a mouse, trailing Hanako all the way back to the entryway of the house. 

“Put this in your room and eat the dinner in the fridge.” Hanako sets the packages into her arms, not taking off her own sandals. “I will come in the morning and bring you to the academy, sleep early.”

“Yes, Hanako-san,” Hakuren says, counting all of her blessings that Hanako is ignoring the shinobi who waited with her. She must have been right to go along with the man and keep his suspicions low. 

As the door slides closed behind the older woman, Hakuren releases a low sigh. The packages are a heavy weight in her tiny arms, but they’re the only things she’s  _ chosen _ for herself in four years. 

Tomorrow’s the beginning of the academy, her second step towards gaining the knowledge she needs to abandon this place.

How exciting.

* * *

The next morning she wakes up to the shoji doors sliding open and the smell of breakfast teasing her nose. Hanako doesn’t say a word, retreating to the kitchen and leaving Hakuren to get herself ready for the Opening Ceremony.

In her sleep the comforter has ended up off the bed, and she’s spread herself starfish shaped to combat the humidity of an early spring night. Her clothes are damp with sweat, and she already dreads the coming months.

How could it get worse than this? Humid climates are the worst. The only way to escape the temperature was to take a shower forever or die.

She rushes through her morning routine, wiping down her body, brushing her teeth, tying her hair up in a bun. It’s already halfway down her back, silky and thick. So different from the curls of her old life that she can remember. 

For her own sanity, it’s a blessing that the Hyuuga clan doesn’t consider long hair inappropriate for males.  She knows it’s stupid, that having short hair won’t make her a boy or less of a girl. But the idea of cutting her hair makes cold sweat drip down her spine and her heart race in her chest.

Her clothes are still laid out on the floor, the uniform she’d picked out for herself, the first pieces of clothing that were chosen by  _ herself _ . She puts on the black pants and undershirt, carefully tucking her penis into the support underwear so her pants look smooth from the front. 

That unpleasantness out of the way, she deliberates over the tops and obis she’d chosen. What would Hanako prefer? Today is the first day, so they’ll walk to the Academy together. It’s better not to make her caretaker upset.

The knee length black and white kimono with the branching tree pattern is the most subdued, and paired with a dark purple obi, it makes a respectable outfit. She finishes the look with her kunai and shuriken pouch, and bandages wrapped around her ankles and wrists.

Cute, feminine, practical. Everything she could ask for. 

School...god she’s really too old for school of all things. She grimaces, and pads out of her room to the kitchen. Hanako is already finished with her meal and cleaning at the counter, so Hakuren quickly, but elegantly, eats her breakfast. She steps onto her kitchen stool and washes her plates as Hanako wipes down the table. 

“Do you have everything?” Hanako asks, drying her hands on a towel.

“Yes, Hanako-san,” she says, hands folded in front of her and head bent. Hakuren holds her breath as the woman glances her over, but when there’s no further comments she slowly exhales. Good, her outfit is fine.

She may not like Hanako but she’s wary and respectful of the woman’s brutal, indifferent and uncompromising nature. If she was truly a child, she’d be a meek, well-trained and malleable baby warrior for Konoha to cultivate.

Her school bag is waiting at the front entrance, she grabs it and slips into her new sandals. Hanako is watching the people on the street, her eyes canvassing the area. Hakuren noticed her doing that during their trip into Konoha, how she was on guard the whole time. And how the civilians kept their eyes away from her melted face. 

Even here traumatic injuries make people uncomfortable, sets them apart.

"Come, a Hyuuga is never late."

Hakuren follows just behind Hanako on her good side, out of the way. Hakuren has learned the hard way to never sneak up on Hanako’s blind spot. She shudders at the memory, and trots to keep up with Hanako’s strides.

They exit the branch family’s gate, flashing their id cards at the same gate guard from yesterday. A thick shield of trees makes a barrier between the compound and the village, making their compound feel almost like a village unto itself. The sakura petals still coat the ground, a sea of pink in front of her eyes.

Ahead of them on the path, she can see two other Hyuuga clan children being led by the hand towards the Academy. She doesn’t recognize them from training at the Dojo.

“Hanako-san, who are they?” she asks.

"Main branch children,” Hanako murmurs, steps slowing imperceptibly, “remember your place child.”

Hakuren drops her gaze, considering this information. There’s only one other branch child in her school year, an unmotivated boy who is still in the first stage of the gentle fist, with an unactivated byakugan. The main branch children are trained in a separate place, with better teachers and individual instruction. These children are new fresh meat to examine so she can try to reverse engineer the main branch teachings. Carefully of course.

She’s seen main branch family members from a distance, but the branch family lives on the outside of the central court, a protective circle against intruders. Before any main branch member dies, the intruders will have stepped over the corpse of every man, woman and child in the branch clan. 

There are two main gates out of the compound, one used by the branch family and one by the main. The only difference between the two Hakuren can decipher is the family blood lines, and the lack of forehead coverings. No main branch member wears the forehead coverings. 

Once she asked Hanako why. She never asked again.

They all walk down the blossom covered road, exiting Hyuuga land into Konoha proper. It’s still as fantastical to Hakuren as it was yesterday. The way the village is like a giant treehouse, it’s amazing, and Hakuren will almost miss it when she leaves.

The stone monument with the faces of the village’s rulers is a landmark to reach the central administrative tower, and the Academy is located close by. It’s not eye catching, in fact it’s tucked away and essentially hidden between a twisting path of tree trunks and buildings. 

If Hanako hadn’t guided her to the door, and without the stream of parents and children going inside, Hakuren would have never found where it was hidden in plain sight.

They pass through the front doors into the crowded auditorium where the students are being checked off and handed their class scrolls. Hanako lets Hakuren give her own name, and take her own scroll, which Hakuren tucks away to read later. The other kids her age are so strange to see, diverse and colorful where the Hyuuga clan favored the dark and drab.

“Make the clan proud,” Hanako says stiffly. “We will speak at dinner.”

“Yes, Hanako-san,” she says, and waits until her guardian turns and sweeps out the door, leaving Hakuren alone in a sea of her new classmates.

Joy.

There are adults lining the back of the room, keeping an eye on their children, and waiting excitedly for the arrival of the Hokage to give the usual talk to the brand new group of mostly cannon fodder. 

Hakuren is sure this will be the first of the two times most of the students will ever see him. A speech at the beginning and the end of the Academy, and then a brutal forgotten sacrifice on the front line. As the children settle down, an academy instructor walks out to the center of the raised dias and gives the opening introduction for the Hokage.

“Today, we will recognize our last year of accelerated courses! This class stands as the last children to entire our Academy as war time students, and to mark this day, our own Hokage will give his words!”

Last year? There had been murmurs of the war winding down, but that was a pretty hopeful outlook. 

Her first impression of the Hokage is that he’s pretty old. The second that he’s also pretty boring, and the third that he’s definitely strong. Her escape plan factors in fourteen to sixteen more years in this village, so the best she can hope for is that someone more incompetent takes the old guy’s post. If she’ll be so lucky…

The assembly wraps up quickly after the Hokage disappears back to his tower, the homeroom teachers coming forward and calling the number of their new homeroom classes. Hakuren looks at the big number 3 emblazoned on her scroll, and then back at the teacher corralling a bunch of children while holding a large number 3.

Yay.


End file.
